


Mama Bird

by LadyElebreth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Bromance, Comedy, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, MCU AU, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slice of Life, Superheroes, friendships, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyElebreth/pseuds/LadyElebreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Never expect adults to behave like adults."<br/>That one's going on my tombstone. Right after, "She died as she was born: done with everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cookies and Such

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Steve and Bucky are left to their own devices? Lots of things, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****You may notice some of these will be labeled as taking place an X amount of time before the events in CA:CW. Because I'm following that timeline, stories with Bucky before those events would create an inconsistency. So let me just say that any one-shot in Mama Bird that features Bucky IS NOT CANON TO THE BYE-BYE BLACKBIRD STORYLINE. It's just happy, idealistic fluff that I had to get out of my brain. In the official scheme of things, Roo has never met Bucky before finding him in Bucharest. Thanks for reading and sorry for any confusion!****

It was of those rare Thursdays where I didn't have to be anywhere special or do anything productive. I was reading on the couch in my usual, upside-down fashion; head resting on the cushions and both of my knees bent over the back. The radio was tuned to an opera station.

Natasha taught me that opera is good for emergencies. Like dealing with punk rock.

When Pietro and Wanda first discovered Fall Out Boy, they wouldn't let me rest until I got them every single album. Now, when they hide out upstairs, they blast it at the threshhold of pain. 

So sometimes, I like to drown them out with the suite from _Carmen,_ just to be annoying.

The book was one of my favorite Tolkien works, so it was good to pass the time. I was just coming to the meeting of Beren and Luthien when I heard the footsteps that make me smile the brightest.

Two seconds later, I heard a key in the lock. "Hey, Rory," Steve's voice filtered in from the hallway, raised over the orchestra, "it's just us!"

Clint has stressed to them and others how important it is to announce yourself when you come into my house. I kind of wish he hadn't done that, because now everyone knows that I sleep with a knife under my pillow.

And that I keep several more stashed around the apartment, all in places where I can conveniently get to them.

(Hey, when you're used to living alone and people suddenly start to appear in your house at all hours of the day, it's a little nervewrecking)

Laughing, I closed the Silmarillion and turned myself up and around.  
"Hey guys, how was—hey, what have you got there?"  
They appeared behind the counter in the kichen. Steve was weighed down with about twelve paper bags in his arms, and Bucky held both of the biggest cold bags that I own in his.  
"We just picked up some vital necessities." Bucky's small smile appeared, and he set the bags down next to the sink, rubbing his hands together. "All good things, Ro; all good things," he assured me.

I raised an eyebrow and bit back a smile. They both know that even though I live in Manhattan, I also live by the standards of clean living, and that includes the foods I eat.

"Well, thanks for helping me out."  
Usually, the three of us plan meals, clip coupons, and shop for groceries together, considering we end up eating together most of the time. But sharing a kitchen with three males with altered metabolisms really knocks a dent in my pantry.

"We thought we'd give you a break," Steve called from the inside of the pantry, where I could hear him putting things on the shelves. I didn't see what he had, though. And boy, was I about to be surprised.

I tsked and shook my head, walking around the bar to unzip the bags. Since _Carmen_ was still playing with reckless abandon, I gestured at the radio and it turned off. "Well, I hope you guys remembered to get eggs and toilet paper this time, because I'm not going to—hey," I broke off, "Steve, what the...?"

The bags were stuffed with Girl Scout cookies, instead of groceries. I've eaten maybe four of those cookies in my entire life; I've just never gotten the chance to really buy any. But this was more than I'd ever seen at any one stand.  
Gosh, how many boroughs had they hiked through?

"Guys, what is this?" I held up two boxes of Tagalongs, and even as I said it, Steve dumped six boxes of Thin Mints out onto my kitchen counter. Bucky came up beside me to retrieve the boxes in my hands. I gave him the glare that Dad says would at least land someone in the hospital, if looks could kill.

"What?"

I raise my hands up and turned around. The longer I know them both, the more I'm assured Bucky was never really the one getting Steve to do crazy or stupid stuff; it was usually the other way around. And I don't even have to always know what it was that happened, all I have to do is blame it on Mr. High-Horsey Army Veteran.

"Steve, I don't want to know," I said it loud enough for him to hear me, going back to the couch and my book. "I don't want to know, Steve!"

"Hey," he poked his dark blonde head out of the pantry doorway,  
"You say that like I robbed the place."

Without looking, I lifted a hand and three bags were flung off the counter and into the pantry.  
"I'm pretty sure you did. What stand did you go to? The one in that sets up at the Trader Joe's on the East Side?"

"Yup," Bucky answered me as he folded the empty bags for the recycling bin. "The girls had about six cases, so we gave 'em a couple hundred for them all."

You see what happens when the boys are unsupervised?

Silently, I surveyed all the boxes on my counter. There were sixty boxes of Thin Mints alone. I smiled—at least a third of those had to be Bucky's.

When he first came to us, it was apparent that he hadn't had genuine food in perhaps decades. He couldn't keep solids down very well at all—then one day, he said he remembered that whenever his handlers woke him up, he was always feed intravenously.  
It was efficient, he'd said to me then. They didn't want anything to slow him down. Not even something he had to digest.

He hadn't eaten by mouth since he couldn't remember how long, so it took a while for him make the adjustment. It wasn't easy. But it was worth it. Because now, he has an appetite, and a sweet tooth to boot. Which reminded me...

"Hey Buck," I touched his arm and whispered, "you'd better hide those, because the twins could show up any second."

That was all he needed to hear.  
I went back to my book, leaving him trying to gather thirty boxes of Thin Mints in his arms. I just really hope Steve follows his example and hides all of his own boxes; if he doesn't, Wanda will probably murder me. Last month, she helped me hide anything with artificial or any other kind of sweetner in the attic, and we've both managed up until now to convince Pietro that I've given up sugar completely.

Normally, I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy. But when the twins were being instated and I was helping with birth certificates and SS numbers and the like, I also got them both to a good dentist. That was about a month after coming to the States. Wanda checked out with only a spot on her back molar, but when Pietro was examined, we found out he had three very ugly cavities. So after two fillings and a root canal, Wanda has constantly been on his case.

But let's face it, he always can get candy whenever he wants it. I know he would never do anything to intentionally make her upset; he just has a thing for sugar.

So do Steve, Bucky, and Natasha. But none of them have ever tried to convince me to buy out Nestlè. Or Cinnabon.

I didn't see where Bucky went after that, but when I looked up from my book again, he was back in the kitchen. His hands were empty.  
Apparently, Steve hadn't noticed they were short on Thin Mints.  
"Steve," I turned around and pointed in his direction, "Pietro hasn't raided my kitchen in a month; if you let on to anyone that there's an armada of Girl Scout cookies in there—"

He smiled. "Don't worry. My lips are sealed."

"They'd better be," I muttered, but I couldn't keep from smiling. And it had nothing to do with my pantry being full of sweets.


	2. Daddy Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FRIDAY plays favorites, Tony really does pay for everything, and Rory is busted.

[one year before CA:CW]

My job with SHIELD's medical psychiatric division was very demanding.  
Once SHIELD was compromised, I became a full-time member of the team and my job became that much harder. But ever since I joined, Dad has insisted on me taking a break every few months. And blows me away every time that Natasha and Steve just let me have it. They say it's so I can recuperate.

 _What am I supposed to do for two whole months,_ I ask them, _just stay at home and knit? Or stitch you guys up whenever you drag your butts back from a fight?_

"This is so stupid," I muttered, wiping motor oil from my nose.

Dad's hand appeared with a wrench clasped in it, which I took from him. He was on the floor, too, and he lowered his head so he see me. "What?"

Dad and I were in the garage, underneath my Impala. Or at least, I was underneath it. 

Despite the fact that my car is almost as old as he is, there was nothing horribly wrong with it; the engine was just fine, but I'd noticed during the last three rides I'd taken that the suspension was a little off.

I could just as easily send it to a mechanic, but I don't really trust anyone else with my baby. And besides, there's just something special about Dad and I working together.  
Or rather, there's something about bonding over our polar-opposite personalities.

Exhaling, I stopped, raised my head as much as the narrow space would allow me, and gave him a look. "I can't believe that you made Steve give me a leave of absence."

He shrugged. "Deal with it. Hey, Dummy," he jumped up and made his way across the garage "change the record for me. Something less indie, providing Her Majesty agrees."

Dad usually lets me pick the music we listen to while we work. And I always milk it for as long as I can, because let's be honest, I can name anything that sounds better than how AC/DC feels pounding inside of my skull. 

Now, if he would just remember who the DJ is...

But that aside, I wasn't going to let him off that easy. "Uh, yeah, Her Majesty does not. And JA—FRIDAY, talk some sense into my darling father already.

 _"If only, Miss Aurora. Nothin' I have to say has convinced him so far_."

"Yeah, and about that," Dad called from where he stood next to Dummy and shuffled through our various vinyl discs, "I'm still not listening!"

Unbelievable, I thought. "Still waiting, FRIDAY!"

_"For the end of your restriction or your death?"_

Well, so much for that idea.

"Whichever comes first," I muttered so she couldn't hear me, staring at the metal components above my head. Dang it. It's times like this I miss JARVIS. He always used to take my side. Vision still does, occasionally. But not the way he used to.

I could hear Dad in the background, trying to pull his favorite creeper out from underneath the Audi "Hey, what do you do when you're not working, anyway? You haven't ever . . . like, sat in the dark and stewed until you seriously considered going all Carrie on us, do you?" he said suddenly.

"No." In spite of myself, I grinned. _I plant stuff, weave and read,_ I thought. No vengeful Carrie urges.

Sometimes, I think Dad takes my abilities better than I do. He still constantly asks me about all the things I can do, even if I don't always have the best answers for him.  
And since I poke so much fun at myself, eventually, he just started making cracks at all of it, too.

"No creepy late-night rituals?" he asked suddenly.

"Nope. Most late nights I'm on the phone with Gran."

Thankfully, Peggy has her occasional bouts with insomnia just like I do, even though she just chalks it up to the fact that "old birds like me never sleep."

"What about you and Maximoff? Are you guys plotting world domination during your nail-painting parties or are you really just doing each others nails?"

That was a new one. I rolled out from under my car long enough readjust my safety glasses. "Where'd you ever get that idea?"

If anyone wonders why Dad is so light-hearted and easy with Bruce, it's because he's gotten so much practice with me. It's not as if Bruce and I are all that different, anyway. Dad never really flips out over anything, but I guess he kinda did over me...in his own way. But he still got over it in like two seconds.

Dad laid down on the creeper and rolled up under the Chevy beside me. "Just wanting the benefit of a doubt."

I didn't take my eyes off of the task at hand, but I smiled again. "Well, you have it. We really do just paint nails. Sometimes we bake. And as for world domination, I take everything one day at a time, as is my custom."

I could tell he was smiling, too. "That's great to know. Because you'd be grounded for the rest of your existence if you took the world by storm overnight."

I grinned. "Nah, I'm too old for that." Using my hips for leverage, I moved and nudged my creeper against his—and he nudged right back.

"You are such a spoiled brat," he grinned back at me.

I am nothing of the sort. "Likewise."

We were both quiet for a few minutes, aside from the occasional request to pass a tool or to tell FRIDAY to turn the music up (me) or down (Dad).

Right after he handed me the WD-40, Dad spoke up again.  
"Hey Roo, I wanna ask you something. But you don't have to really answer," he snapped his own pair of goggles back on and picked up a different wrench.

In the three seconds before we continued, I felt my jaw tighten a little. For as long as I've been alive, Dad has really kind of sucked at one-on-one, father-daughter conversations. He still does. But he only calls me "Roo" when he has something really important to tell me. And I knew it had to be important for him to have flown me out to Malibu. "What is it?"

He hesitated. Then he turned and looked to me. "Are you—are you okay?"

It was a simple question. It shouldn't have surprised me at all, but it still did. I felt one of my eyebrows slowly rise.  
"Yeah," I said slowly. "Last time I checked."  
As annoying as these little things are, I always try to be respectful when Dad does this, because I knows he worries about me.  
Constantly.  
And I know this because ... I may or may not hone in on him every other day. 

"We're not—" he caught himself, "they're not pushing you too hard?"  
Nobody gets away with that. Except for me. And I told him so.  
But he wasn't done. "Are the migraines still bothering you?"

 _Are you kidding me,_ I wanted to say. _Daddy dearest, I live on the edge of a migraine._  
Being someone with any kind of advanced mental capacity is not all its cracked up to be.  
For as long as I can remember, unreal pressure has always built up in my head whenever something big happens, or when my emotions (or those of people around me) get out of line.

And unlike Wanda, I haven't yet found a way to dispel all of my emotional energy without harming myself. So all that pressure around my brain has to get out of me somehow, usually in the form of a very long nosebleed that makes the work of the Jaws special effects-team look like amateur hour.

Or something like, y'know...the occasional aneurysm. I've had about four of those.  
Yet none of this actually hurts me; at least, not permanently. I mean, it may put me in bed for four days or so while my body gets its crap together again, and its a tad bit discomforting, but what can you do?

Besides, can you imagine what would happen if my dad (Captain Control Freak Stark) even thought for one second that there was something seriously wrong with my brain?  
You know what, never mind; don't. The very idea makes me shudder.

"They come and go, just like the nosebleeds," I answered finally, with tact. "But that's to be expected, you know?"

"Yeah," he murmured, laying down a few bolts. "I really don't know where you get all of the tolerance from."

I smiled a little. "Tolerance for what?" But I knew very well what.

"Any of it. Dealing with your own thing," he grunted, rolling out from under the Impala, "Keeping one eye on us and the other on Peggy." He reached for his bottle of water and rolled mine under the car to me. "And the twins," he went on, "and the rest of the team—"

I knew well enough what was coming, but while he talked I rolled out, pushed off and headed over to Dummy. "Hey buddy," I patted his one arm and pointed to Adele 25. "Put that one on. Yeah," I coached as he picked it up, "yeah, that one. Good boy. You're the best."  
He whirred appreciatively and I took a few gulps from my water.

Dad was still going strong: "—and then you've got your thing with—"

My mouth was still full, but I didn't let that stop me. I knew what was coming. I took the bottle from my mouth and pointed at Dad with my free hand. He shut up. Finally, I swallowed. "Don't even say it, Dad."

He made that innocent face. "What?"

"Don't you 'what' me."

"What? All I'm saying is—"

"I don't do that and you know I don't."

He gave me his no-bull side-eye. "Suuuuure."

"We are not having this conversation. If you ever bring it up again, I swear will end you. Don't tempt me."

He gave me a good long look before directing his gaze to the ceiling. Then he said the words, "Sixty-eight dates."

 _Wait, what?_ I froze and recovered in a split second. "What do you mean, 'sixty-eight dates'?"

Dad bit back a grin that was none too innocent. "Mmm-hmm...lemme see, there was Barnes&Noble, Starbucks, the smoothies in the park, the food truck in D.C., the bistro in Brooklyn, the Natural History Museum—"

"Shut it." He shut it. But he was still smug.

I just sat there. "How?" I finally managed.

Dad shrugged, and I burned a hole into his face with my eyes. "I said, how?"

He laughed a little. "Honey," he said, "I really do pay for everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...obviously I know nothing about fixing cars. But I tried.


	3. Hibernation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a Bland Marvel Headcanon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this Bland Marvel Headcanon that says Bucky can and will sleep through just about anything—and that the longest he ever slept was about 21 hours. I decided to take that a step further. Which means more idealistic and non-canon Bucky fluff!

"Is he still out of it?"

I bit the edge of my lower lip. "Like a light." 

"Unbelievable." Steve came around behind the couch and stood next to me.  
As he'd been since the night before last, this morning, and into this evening, Bucky was still curled up on the couch cushions; practically comatose. He wasn't hurt or anything, and he hadn't had an anxiety attack. He'd just been sleeping. For at least a day and a half. 

It'd been funny, at first. On Saturday night, he, Steve and I had been watching _Poirot_ reruns. Or at least, Steve and I had been watching. Even though he'll sit through just about any movie and not so much as blink, Bucky pretty much always falls asleep as soon as a tv show starts. And that's what he did this time around. In two minutes, his head had fallen back on the couch cushions and he was out of it. 

Naturally, we'd all made the best of it—I had braided topknots all over his head (at least his hair wouldn't get caught in the grooves of his arm while he slept); Wanda shot a video of Steve and I playing three rounds of tic-tac-toe with fridge magnets on Bucky's metal arm. Natasha wanted to step it up a notch and break out the makeup, but Steve said no. 

Besides that, we just let him alone. A few months ago, as soon as the nightmares began to dissipate, he just started sleeping like a rock. He doesn't do this all the time; only once every few months. But it's pretty priceless.  
Because we're all aware that, if left to his own devices, Bucky can and will sleep at least eighteen hours.  
And he usually wakes up with no clue that he's slept like a day of his life away. 

But how much sleep he gets usually depends on where he decides to pass out—the front passenger seat of my car is one of his favorite places. So is Steve's only bathroom. Let me tell you, THAT time was hilarious. As for me, I don't mind being robbed of my couch for at least a day—the poor guy deserves whatever respite he can get.  
But it wasn't until about four hours ago that Steve and I started wondering . . . 

I raised my head—Pietro was coming. And two seconds later, he rushed past Steve and I.  
Then he came back. "He hasn't moved yet?" he said incredulously. 

I shook my head. Pietro jumped in next to me and leaned over the back of the couch. "Is he dead?" The very unamused look that Steve gave Pietro also gave him the incentive to rephrase that question.  
"How long does this make?" he asked quietly. 

Steve rolled up his sleeve and held up his wrist to inspect his watch. "Twenty hours and forty-eight minutes," he answered presently. 

"That's a new record," I observed, reaching down to mess with Bucky's hair. I was kind of hoping he would do something, like show some signs of life. He didn't. He was still dead to the world. 

"This is getting ridiculous," Steve muttered. "Hey Buck," he reached down and started snapping his fingers in front of Bucky's face, "rise and shine." 

Nothing happened. But he did snore a little, though. 

"You try, Wroe," Pietro said to me, obviously impressed. Wanda told me that he's probably never slept more than four hours at a time in all of their lives. 

I smirked, laughing. "I don't know; why not you, skidmark? It's okay if he hates you. "  
So far, Bucky has not objected to me or Steve waking him up from anything But considering how everyone else has seen the last three alarm clocks that Bucky's metal arm has crushed, one else has ever tried. 

But I would kind of love right now to see how fast Pietro could dodge a blow from that metal fist.  
"Because I do not live here and he is not on my couch," he stated matter-of-factly. "And he already hates me." 

Steve was no help, he just laughed as I rolled my eyes. 

"Alright, girls. Watch and learn," I muttered, jumping over the back of the couch. I landed on the cushions, a few inches from Bucky. "Okay Sarge," I reached over and touched his shoulder, talking loudly. "Lemme see those big baby blues."

And not one second later: "Gosh, Ro. Was that all you wanted?" a familiar voice asked suddenly. Bucky was sitting up and grinning at me. "What's a guy gotta do for you to notice him?" 

Pietro laughed and I felt my face heat up. Steve just stood there and blinked. "You little—" he threw up his hands and turned away. "Buck," he shouted as he walked away, "you're something else, you know that?"


	4. The Senior Citizen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is why you don't get Steve riled up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of a post about Steve and Bucky embracing their inner old man.

_[Ten months before CA:CW] ___

"Girl's what is this?"

Natasha and I were in the middle of an Investigation Discovery marathon, but at the sound of Steve's voice, we turned away from the screen. He was standing beside the couch, holding up something that, to all appearances, looked like a walker.

Natasha grinned. "That's a walker," she replied simply. She turned back to the screen. He looked over at me expectantly. I just shrugged and shook my head. _Not me_ I mouthed.

"I know what it is," Steve said impatiently. "What I really want to know is what it was doing in my room beside my bed when I woke up this morning."

Natasha ignored him and opted for leaning over to me. "Who do you think it was, the husband or the twin? I think it was the twin."

 _It's never the twin and it was totally the husband,_ I wanted to say, except for Steve wasn't finished with us.

"Okay. Okay, you know what, Romanoff?" The walker hit the floor with a dull _plunk_. "It was cute at first, but now it's just plain insulting."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Aw, c'mon Steve, it's not insulting—"

"Heck yeah, it is!"

"No—"

Okay, time to intervene. "Yeah, actually it really is just insulting now," I interrupted her and bit back a smile.

"Yes, " Steve exclaimed. "Thank you."

Score. I grinned as Nat stewed. Deliberately, she put her feet up on the coffee table and slid lower into the cushions. "Traitor."

"Oh, hohoho," I got up off the couch. "Don't you even go there. You were the mastermind."

Dad and a few of the others (including Nat) have been milking Steve's status as a senior citizen on-and-off for the past four years. It started with a harmless joke, and then it escalated, with everyone trying to outdo each other. Since last year, and especially since we all have seperate assignments most of the time, the shenanigans have died down a little as of late. But...eh, let's face it, they never really stop.

And since Natasha is the chief instigator right after Dad, she definitely doesn't know when to give up.

"It's just a running gag," she was saying now, but Steve cut her off.

"Natasha, you replaced all of my shoes with orthopedics, then you took my earbuds and gave me back a pair of Clint's hearing aids; you broke into my house that one time and got all of my protein supplements out of the kitchen and replaced them with laxatives; you put a bath chair in my shower and switched the toothpaste for denture gel, and don't even get me started on all of the prunes and Nurture drinks I found in my fridge."

I have to admit, I admired Nat's creativity. She looked so smug that I was unwilling to add to Steve's woes, but... " Don't forget the time she paid Sam to help her switch all of your underwear out for adult diapers," I said, holding up a hand.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "How'd you—no, forget it."

I laughed. "Yeah, that one was priceless."

"Yeah, you weren't the one who had to replace sixty pairs of underwear," he shot back.  
Then he looked down at Natasha. "Bottom line, I know I'm ancient. And so does everyone else around here. So stop milking it." He left us both to our documentary, with the walker still resting beside the couch. I waited until the sound of his steps faded before I gave Natasha a look. It took her a little over ten seconds to notice.

"What?" she asked innocently. "You still don't think it was the twin?"

Okay, enough is enough. _"I don't care who it was!!"_ I exploded, getting off of my perch on the back of the couch. "I mean I care, but—dang it, Natasha." With that out of my system, I grabbed the remote and paused the show. "Look, he's right. It was funny at first, but he doesn't find it funny anymore."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. He's not really offended. Steve knows I love him. Everybody loves him." She gave me a look. "And it's not as if he hasn't pulled a few stunts on you in the past. Remember that time when he and Sam put a trail of birdseed and suet all through your house and your crow got loose?"

Yeah, I remembered. It was the best day of Edgar's life. And the weirdest of mine.

"Okay, yeah, and I kinda had that one coming from a mile away. And...you know that Steve's not really as old as you guys make him out to be."

She actually laughed. Genuinely laughed. Out loud. "Okay, I did not just hear you say that."

Maybe I wasn't showing it, but I was really starting to get impatient with her. "You do realize that technically, he's only thirty-five?"

She shrugged. "Still older than you," she insisted before playing the documentary.

I just sat there and stared at her. "I'm just gonna clean up your latest evil mess," I muttered finally, getting up.

Nat nodded, eyes glued to the screen. "You do that."

I shook my head, wondering what the heck any of us was going to do with a walker.

 

               *********

  
Two days later, I was back at the facility, chugging water as I plodded up the staircase to the kitchen.  
After two hours of barbells and the elliptical, I was wanted nothing more than twenty of whatever I could find in the fridge. But as I passed the floor that seperates the kitchen from the barbells and weight racks, the better I could clearly hear Dean Martin's single from _Ocean's Eleven_. Someone was playing Steve's favorite XM station loud enough to wake the dead.

 _It better not be Natasha trying to push his buttons again,_ I thought, exhaling and quickening my pace.

Let me just say that I got the shock of my life as soon as I got to the top of the stairs. There, at the counter, sat Steve. Wearing a pair of bifocals as he flipped through a stack of cheap drugstore sale ads. There was a half-empty glass of my orange-flavored fiber supplement within the reach of his hand. And propped beside the barstool he was sitting on was a metal cane.

Not gonna lie, I was pretty sure I was hallucinating it all, especially that part about my fiber supplement. My brain does weird things to me sometimes when I'm overtired. But no, I rubbed my eyes and he was still there. And totally oblivious to my presence, too. I stepped over to the stereo and turned the volume dial down to the halfway mark. I briefly wondered if he'd shattered his eardrums; he didn't react even when I came around the other side of the counter and opened the fridge.

I finally found one of my bottled breakfast smoothie and popped the lid off. "This is trippy," I muttered, right before I started chugging.

No sooner did those words pass my lips than Steve's head shot up. And I kid you not, he said these words in the most ridiculous voice: "Aurora, stop that mumbling. You know I can't hear you when you mumble!"

I choked, but I managed not to spew fruit everywhere. Pounding my chest with my fist, I inhaled and managed to turn around.

"What—what did you just say?"

He shook his head and took the bifocals from his face. "You crazy kids, shovin' your food down as if it's gonna grow legs and run away. If it doesn't kill ya now, then it'll kill ya when you're my age."

I felt my mouth fall open.

"And shut your mouth before a fly gets in there."

I shut it. And I drew my eyes to slits. Slowly, deliberately, I screwed the cap back onto my smoothie. And I just stared at my friend, who was sitting there in his jjs and acting every bit of his ninety-seven years. I understood exactly what he was doing, and wondered how long he was going to keep it up.

I also wondered how much damage it would do to my knuckles if I reached over and broke his perfect nose.  
It was very tempting. But I resisted. And finally, I smiled. "Has Natasha come up here yet?"

He dropped the act long enough to smile back at me. "Not yet, no. But she will."

Sure enough, about a second later, Natasha's voice and steps could be heard in the stairwell.  
"Hey, Cap! You do know there have been other songs written in the last seventy years, right?"

I grinned. "Go get 'em, Tiger," I whispered, patting Steve's shoulder as I passed him.

He winked at me before turning back to a power chair ads.

I couldn't help but laugh as I left Natasha to her fate.

I've really gotta hand it to Steve: he knows how to get revenge.


End file.
